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THE POEMS OF 
RALPH E. McMILLIN 





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THE POEMS 

of 
RALPH E. McMILLIN 



BOSTON 

MASSACHUSETTS 

I919 






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COPYRIGHT, 1919, BY E. A. MoMILLIN 
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 



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MAY -3 1919 



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FOREWORD 

Ralph Edward McMillin was born in Amsterdam, 
New York, June 8, 1882. His childhood after the 
first two years was passed in North Adams, Massa- 
chusetts, where he grew up among the Berkshire 
Hills. He graduated from Phillips Andover Academy 
in 1901 and spent some time in both Williams Col- 
lege and Columbia University. In Williams he be- 
came a member of the Theta Delta Chi Society. 

In 1904 he went to Boston and began his news- 
paper career as a reporter on the Boston Record. In 
1905 he went to the Herald, where he remained 
about eight years — first as reporter, afterwards as 
Sporting Editor and Sunday Editor. In 19 14 he be- 
came associated with the Journal, where he did 
special writing until he joined the editorial staff of 
the American in 19 16. He was married in 1907 to 
Miss Mary Emmott, of North Adams. Two chil- 
dren, John and Elizabeth, were born to them. He 
died at his home in Medford, February 10, 1918. 

In the beginning of his newspaper career his nat- 
ural interest in college athletics turned his pen first 
to sports, and soon his stories of great games be- 
came a feature of Boston papers. He made these 
stories remarkable because of his sense of dramatic 
and poetic values. Whether he wrote of a ball game 
or of some tragedy or comedy of life, he wrote al- 
ways with the vision of the poet. The strain of 
poetic feeling running through all his work made it 

[ V 1 



distinctive. His keen sense of humor, too, was a 
delight to all who knew his work. The poems which 
were constantly appearing under his name he never 
regarded seriously. He wrote them because he had 
to — they flowed from his pen without effort. He 
never spoke of them or seemed to remember their 
existence. Many of them were written for his chil- 
dren. 

His Liberty Loan poems attracted the attention 
of the Liberty Loan Committees both in Boston and 
Washington, and they obtained permission from him 
to use them in the various campaigns. They were 
so used both before and after his death. 

In these later years he was kept busy with stories 
of great international crises and calamities. The 
great questions and issues of the War awoke in him 
an exalted patriotism. Through his pen he did am- 
ply and fully his part in the winning of the War. 
Throughout all his life he won scores of friends. It 
was said of him that he never lost a friend. His asso- 
ciates loved him. The tributes they have offered to 
his memory are very numerous and beautiful. 

In the closer relations of life he won always deep 
and boundless affection. His unfailing personal 
charm, his brilliancy of intellect, his lovable boyish 
nature made up a rare personality. 

This volume of his verse is dedicated to his mem- 
ory by those who love him best. 



CONTENTS 

WAR POEMS 

Consecration 3 

Christmas Eve, 1914 4 

April Fool 5 

The Conscript — 1917 6 

The Lone Star's Lead 8 

To THE Rescue 9 

Joffre 10 

Somewhere 11 

** The Girl I Left Behind" 12 

Her Soldier of '17 13 

Sure, 't was an Irishman Started the Fight . . .15 

Abey and Jimmy and Mike 16 

The Sword of Liberty 18 

Lafayette .19 

What is the Liberty Loan? 20 

Silver Billows 21 

Lightless . 23 

Lincoln's Birthday 24 

'61 TO '17 25 

Can We Face Him ? 26 

Our Message to Belgium 27 

The Flag's Birthday 28 

The Good Old Prices 29 

OCCASIONAL POEMS 

My Flag ^^ 

The Young Men 34 

Chucking a Reprobate 36 

The Spirit of Victory 38 

The Football Player 39 

[ vii ] 



If I Were— 41 

Snow 43 

A City Watcher 44 

A Toast to the Many 45 

The Master Driver 47 

And Then What ? 49 

A Daddy to His Real Valentine 51 

That Boy 52 

Thanksgiving Exiles 53 

The Trout Brook 54 

To Golf — A Toast 55 

To the Soldiers of Fifty Years Ago 57 

BASEBALL POEMS 

To Timothy H. Murnane 61 

Looking Backward and Forward 62 

Some World — At Times 63 

" Fer TO Admire " 65 

The Flinging Whip 67 

The Old Trainer 69 

The Boy and the Dream 71 

The Call to Arms 72 

That Pennant 74 

*'Wot'sd' Score" 76 

The Return of the Faithful 78 

Abe Potash on Summer 80 

The Champion 81 

An Old Story 83 

"Harvardyalewocky" 85 

Spring Knows 87 



WAR POEMS 



CONSECRATION 

Lord of all battles, throned in splendor, 
High in the smoky mists above, 

Once more our legions homage render. 
Chanting their battle song of love. 

Love of America, they sing^ 
Who guard her fate ; 
Up to Thy awful throne they bring 
No song of hate. 

Proudly our ships, in battle column, 
Sail out upon the troubled sea; 

Swiftly the drum-beat, hollow, solemn, 
Calls all our chivalry to Thee. 

Love of America, they sing^ 
Who guard her fate ; 
Up to Thy awful throne they bring 
No song of hate. 

Lord of all battles, glory lend them, 

Our sons from mountain and from shore, 

Soberly, tenderly, we send them 

Into Thy thund'ring lists once more. 

Love of America, they sing, 
Who guard her fate; 
Up to Thy awful throne they bring 
No song of hate, 

[3] 



CHRISTMAS EVE, 1914 

VY HEN Hans his wooden sword lays by, 

And Gretchen sings her doll to sleep, 
When twilight dulls the English sky, 
And tiny figures dreamward creep. 
O'er hill and valley, lane, and lea, 
And war-torn towns beside the sea, 
Creeps Christmas-as-it-used-to-be. 

When little Olga says good-night. 

And small Marie her prayers has said. 
When wee Pierre has turned the light. 
And scurried hastily to bed. 

For once the sleep of tears and fears 
Is broken, and the dreamer hears 
The Christmas bells of other years. 

Upon the battle lines the pall 
Of darkness closes slowly in. 
Above the lonely bugle call 

The cannon roars its evening din. 

Then, while they count the day's grim cost. 
Stalks, through the tattered ranks and toss'd, 
The brooding Ghost of Christmas-lost. 

War takes its toll of tiny hearts. 

And thrives on children's shattered dreams, 
*'Good will" goes, too, when peace departs, 
Yet where our peaceful standard gleams. 
And Christmas comes to you and me. 
How many a waif the dream will see, 
Of Christmas-as-it-ought-to-be. 



APRIL FOOL 

Lo,'* said the war god, "I Ve loosed my legions, 
Over the earth I have cast my spell ; 

The darkness has come in my blood red regions, 
And life has ceased where my footsteps fell." 

Then Spring came back with its burst of glory 
And the sun beat down on the trodden plain, 

And there, by the rim of the trenches gory, 
The April violets bloomed again. 

"The earth is mine," roared the war god, shaking 
His smoky mane to the breezes cool, 

But the old earth smiled in its Spring awaking 
And answered cheerily, ''April Fool.'* 



[5] 



THE CONSCRIPT --1917 

X^ OR Smith and Brown and Jones, 

All common men like me, 
I '11 march to where my ship 

Lies gray-clad in the sea. 
And tossed half 'round the world. 

Through smiling luck or ill, 
For Smith and Brown and Jones 

I '11 learn to maim and kill ; 
For Smith and Brown and Jones — old friends 
To dare whatever Fortune sends. 

And Smith shall plod along 

The old path year by year, 
And Jones shall work and dream 

And carve his small career; 
While Brown among his kids 

Shall bask in home-love ease ; 
What glory mine to fight 

For common men like these ! 
For Smith and Jones and Brown, all three. 
To fight and kill beyond the sea. 

For Smith and Brown and Jones, 

A hundred million more; 
My lot of Fate is drawn 

My ship is at the shore; 



[ 6 ] 



My fingers clutch the gun, 

And faster beats my heart; 
I pray as homeland fades 
For strength to do my part 
For Smith and Jones and Brown, hut then 
None ever died for better men. 



[ 7 ] 



THE LONE STAR'S LEAD 

(The American flag was borne into action on the French front 
to-day by a young Texan who carried the banner on his bay- 
onet in a charge against the German trenches. — News note.) 

Above the fields of Plcardy, 

Behold another star, 
A Lonely Star that shows the trail 

Across the trenches' scar — 
And Davy Crockett's spirit rides 

With Henry of Navarre. 

Bright shines that star for sunny France 

O'er faces worn and wan, 
To blaze a Starry Banner's way 

Across the ocean's span — 
And Davy Crockett's spirit rides 

Beside the white Joan. 

The Lone Star of the Alamo 

Shines o'er a fight again, 
It glistens on a gory field 

Amid the leaden rain — 
And Davy Crockett's spirit rides 

With that of Charlemagne. 

And brighter stars in glory borne 

Shall sweep across the sea 
To follow, in the Lone Star's lead, 

The pathway of the free — 
And Davy Crockett's spirit rides 

With that of Liberty. 

[ 8 1 



TO THE RESCUE 

(The Call of La Belle France) 

1 IS not for alms she cries — 
Wounded and sore oppressed, 
France with her weary eyes, 
Pressing against her breast 
Village and home and country-side, 
Blackened and crushed in the war-path wide • 
But as a maid for a knight to ride 
Out of the shining West. 

This were a true knight's task, 

Knight in the purest mail. 

Gleaming from spur to casque. 

As one who seeks the Grail. 

Lovely and wistful and sad she stands, 

Crimson the stains on her white, torn hands, 

Crimson her feet on the roadside sands — 

Lovely and wan and frail. 

Ride to the rescue, then. 

Knights of the Western Land, 

Taking the lists again, 

Glittering sword in hand. 

Nor when the din of the battle 's done 

Rest ye content with the vict'ry won; 

Bind ye the scars of the vanished Hun — 

Building her villages one by one — 

Ever in peace to stand. 

[9] 



JOFFRE 

Shattered the Uhlan lances lie 
Where the trampled lily lifts her head 
And the shining Marne flows flashing by 
Through the fields of the consecrated dead 
And the lances rot in the crimsoned sod. 
Deep-buried there the Spring blades quiver, 
But the lily smiles through her tears to God, 
Raised by thy hand by the silent river. 



[ 10 1 



SOMEWHERE 

OAY good-bye and march away, 

Somewhere *'over there." 
You shall be both night and day 

Somewhere in my prayer. 
Somewhere in my constant dreaming 

Visions, yours, will rise. 
Look and see the love-light gleaming 

** Somewhere in my eyes." 

Say good-bye and seek the ships ; 

Somewhere o'er the sea. 
May the mem'ry of my lips 

Hold you fast to me. 
Though the ocean tides that sever 

Keep us worlds apart 
You shall be right here, forever, — 

*^ Somewhere in my heart." 

Say good-bye, nor let the tears 

Drown the soldier's smile; 
I shall put away my fears 

Somewhere for a while. 
Somewhere I '11 find strength for bearing 

All of war's alarms, 
Till I hold you, honors wearing, 

*' Somewhere in my arms." 



[ 11 1 



"THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND" 

In my memory 's a picture 
Dearly cherished through the years 
Of a figure in a doorway, 
Slender, girlish; smiles and tears 
Struggle in her face together. 
My own eyes are strangely blind 
As I say "Good-bye, God bless you," 
To the ''Girl I Left Behind." 

There 's a picture too — a campfire, 

Where a ragged boy reclines 

Holding in his hands a letter, 

Poring o'er its tender lines, 

And once more my eyes are dimmer 

As again across my mind 

Runs the sweet and love-lit message 

Of the ''Girl I Left Behind." 

Years have passed and peace has blessed 

them; 
Battle visions — lurid gleams 
Of the old days cluster round me. 
Smoky phantoms in my dreams. 
But I face the Gray Foe, waiting 
In the Shadow, calm, resigned, 
For I know that waiting with me 
Is the "Girll Left Behind." 



[ 12 ] 



HER SOLDIER OF '17 

A STEP in the street and a swift good-bye, 

A rush and a sob by the old hall stair, 
And grandmother's needles more swiftly fly 

As over her knitting she breathes a prayer — 
A prayer that is meant for no mortal ears, 

A tenderly murmured ''Thy will be done," 
As echoing out of the past she hears 

The voice of her soldier of 'sixty-one. 

Then grandmother's grandmother, old and gray, 

Sat propped in the selfsame cushioned seat. 
And heard, as they faded so soon away, 

The footsteps, alert in the silent street, 
The sob and the rush and the sweet good-byes — 

All memories dear for her heart to delve — 
And then, through the mist that dimmed her eyes, 

The voice of her soldier of eighteen-twelve. 

A nation's career and a hundred years 

Since under the trees of the budding lane 
She choked back the flood of the blinding tears 

And clasped at a heart that was racked with 
pain — 
The low and the soberly-spoken word — 

How strangely the sad, sweet memories mix — 
And grandmother's grandmother's mother heard 

The voice of her soldier of 'seventy-six. 



[ 13 1 



War-torn are the hills of the world once more, 

And over the seas sounds the bugle call, 
And sweet as the maids of the days of yore. 

The brave, true girl in the lonely hall; 
As old as the earth when the first gay Springs ^ 

With magic of love turned a gray world green, 
With ancient, echoing meaning it rings — 

The voice of her soldier of 'seventeen. 



[ 14 ] 



SURE, T WAS AN IRISHMAN STARTED 
THE FIGHT 

(Somewhere in France, October 2^, 1917. The first American 
shot of the war with Germany on French soil was fired by a 
red-haired Irishman. — Cable dispatch.) 

OURE! who else would ye pick out to start it? 

Ye 'd have it official, I trow. 
And who would ye have to impart it — 

The news of an illigant row? 
'T is a message ye 'd send to the Kaiser 

That 'd make him grow green in his fright? 
He '11 hear this, both sadder and wiser — 

** An Irishman's started a fight!" 

Sure ! he 's met them before down to Wipers ; 

They 've cudgelled his Hindenburg line 
Where they swarmed to the lilt of their pipers 

And swore to go through to the Rhine. 
Sure now that his dreams grow unaisy 

At the flag "in the dawn's early light," 
'T is a blow, sure, to knock a king hazy — 

"An Irishman's started a fight!" 

Sure, there 's red in his hair like the sunshine, 

There 's blue in his eyes like the sky ; 
His soul is pure white where the guns shine 

And the shriek of the shrapnel sounds high. 
The world knows he's never a quitter; 

'T is the Kaiser knows best, in his might; 
Sure, it 's sad news for the Germans and bitter — 

^*An Irishman's started a fight!" 

[ 15 1 



ABEY AND JIMMY AND MIKE 

The Return of "Boston's Own" Regiment 

AbEY and Jimmy and Mike went out in the rattle 

of lusty cheers 
To a farewell kiss and a brave, sweet smile through 

the dimness of women's tears; 
And Abe pulled the peak of a checkered cap o'er the 

mist of his own moist eyes, 
And Jimmy and Mike swung their battered hats 

to the wave of the last good-byes. 
And each with the wonder of what the war in its 

grim store held for him 
Marched by to the call of the Nation's Draft — 

Abey and Mikey and Jim. 

Abey and Mikey and Jim caught on to the swing 

of the army life, 
With its shoulder arms and its bugle calls and its 

lessons in bloody strife. 
And Abey and Mikey and Jim, all three, with the 

spirit of soldiers born. 
Sailed in with a vim for their daily job from the 

blush of the first gray morn. 
And out on the sweep of the drill grounds rise where 

the roaring sergeants rave. 
They learned what it is to be ** fighting men" — 

Jimmy and Mikey and Abe. 



[ 16 ] 



Abey and Mikey and Jim come back — mark now 

how their faces beam — 
In the olive drab, with their shoulders set and their 

brand new guns a-gleam. 
To Abey and Mikey and Jim, no doubt, there 's a 

music still in our cheers, 
But their eyes are ''front" and their eyes are bright 

with never a trace of tears — 
And under the flags as they swing along with that 

confident stride we like, 
They come with the bearing of heroes, all — Abey 

and Jimmy and Mike. 



[ 17 ] 



THE SWORD OF LIBERTY 

Lift thou the Sword, in glory bright, 
Above the Field of Blood, 
A Beacon in the fearful night, 
Amid the crimson flood ! 
America, the God of Right 
Has blessed a Cause for thee; 
Wield thou, in all its holy might, 
The Sword of Liberty. 

Hold high the Sword, in Freedom's name, 

That all the world may know 

Its sacred mission and its flame 

Strike terror to the foe! 

America, thy strength divine 

Shall break a despot's throne 

And stir beyond the troubled Rhine 

A love that is thine own. 

Bear thou the Sword across the world 
And let it sweep the main 
Beside the Starry Flag, unfurled, 
Till seas are safe again! 
America, thy wondrous hands 
The Lily, crushed, shall raise 
And kindle in the mourning lands 
The fires of peace and praise. 



[ 18 ] 



LAFAYETTE 

One boy of twenty and one dream, 

One ship, one loyal band, 
One great ideal o'er all supreme, 

One sword, one heart, one hand — 
As Jason sowed the dragon's teeth 

Along the fresh ploughed swell. 
So on our fruitful land beneath 

These seeds of Freedom fell. 

From Jason^s toil the armed men sprang, 

In shining helm and shield, 
And Jason's name on each lip rang , 

Across the furrowed field. 
So now our fighting millions rise, > 

A magic "harvest home" — 
A thousand ships of lordly size 

Toss up the silver foam. 

A *' harvest home" of armored might, 

Arrayed in splendor grand 
It sweeps ahead to join the fight 

And saves a stricken land. 
One youth, one ship, one boyhood dream, 

One impulse living yet! 
And now — a sea of arms a-gleam — 

Our "hosts of Lafayette." 



[ 19 ] 



WHAT IS THE LIBERTY LOAN? 

It 'S forts and it 's ships and it 's shining guns. 
It's squadrons that sweep the sea. It's all of the 
circling band of steel that shall keep all the home 
shores free. It's grub and it's warmth for the sailor 
lad, far out on the wintry foam — for the brave 
jack tar, as he fights afar, it's the good old "Money 
from Home.'* 



WHAT IS THE LIBERTY LOAN? 

IT'S rifle and helm and it's bayonet, it's shovel 
and shard and shell, for the soldier boy in the olive 
drab, out there on the edge of hell. It's the soaring 
wings of the whirring planes that battle on high 
alone. For the lad who is daring "Over There," it's 
the good old "Money from Home." 



WHAT IS THE LIBERTY LOAN? 

IT'S succor and Hfe for a bleeding world. It's the 
glimmer of Peace at dawn. It's the strength of a 
mighty arm to strike. It's the gleam of a great 
sword, drawn; but, more than all, it's a pledge of 
love to the lads whom we call "Our Own," to the 
boys on land, afloat, on high, it's the good old 
"Money from Home." 

[ 20 1 



SILVER BILLOWS 

Out of the old cracked pitcher, 

Out of the old wool sock, 
From the depths of the feather mattress 

And the dark nook behind the clock, 
New England dollars are pouring 

As they clang and tinkle and ring 
In the stream of the nation's off 'ring — 

And this is the song they sing — 

Clink, dinky clink , 
Tinkle, tinkle, clink, 
Roll on, oh, silver billows, 
On your shining bosom wide 

Bearing all our precious legions 
Onward to the battle tide, 
Standard bearer, soldier, sailor. 
All our host of fighting men; 
Bear them safely, silver billows, 

^'Over there'' and home again. 

Out of the vaults wealth laden, 

Out of the well-filled tills. 
From the Croesus palaces lying 

In the rear of the great bronze grills. 
New England dollars are pouring 

As they clang and tinkle and ring 
In the stream of the nation's off 'ring — 

And this is the song they sing — 



[ 21 ] 



Clink, clink t clink, 
Tinkle, tinkle, clink, 
Roll on, oh, silver billows, ^ 
On your shining bosom wide 

Bearing all our precious legions 
Onward to the battle tide. 
Standard bearer, soldier, sailor, 
All our host of fighting men; 
Bear them safely, silver billows, 

^^Over there" and back again. 



I 22 1 



LIGHTLESS 

(Dedicated by one who frets at home to a soldier "Over 
There" who has lost his sight for us and for democracy.) 

1 MISS the dancing lights of town, 

Their clustered cheer, 
Complaining at the lamp, turned down. 

The dim streets, drear. 
The White Way darkened and its garish sights 
Eclipsed and sobered on the "Lightless Nights." 

He never more will see the sun, 

The sheen of trees, 
Or count the ripples, one by one, 

Of shimmering seas — 
But always groping on uncertain ways 
Smiles, uncomplaining, on his Lightless Days. 



[ 23 ] 



LINCOLN'S BIRTHDAY 

(The following poem was based on this thought from Lincoln's 
Gettysburg Address: "That we here highly resolve that these 
dead shall not have died in vain.") 

And these new windrows of the dead 
Across new fields encrimsoned blown, 

To what high purpose have they bled 
Upon the altar of a throne? 

Each mound the heart throb of a King, 
Each soldier's gasp of fevered breath; 

The measure Time ordains to bring 
An age of monarchs nearer death. 

To us who watch the lines dissolve 
And melt amid the leaden rain ; 

Again there comes HIS high resolve, 
**God grant they shall not die in vain." 



[ 24 ] 



'6i TO '17 

Comrade, let me clasp your hand! 
Now the battle gods are calling 
And the bugle notes are falling 
Sweet and clear across the land ; 
Though this body halts with pain, 
In my heart I hear them too, — 
Comrade, I shall march with you 
In a world grown young again. 

Comrade, I have heard the hiss 
Of the red Death's whispered greeting, 
Known the steely shock of meeting 
In the roar of times like this ; 
Though my step be lame and slow, 
In my heart I '11 charge with you. 
Side by side we '11 fight — we two — 
I, in dreams of long ago. 

Comrade mine of 'Seventeen, 
Trail the battle gods to glory. 
Write your chapter of the Story 
On a new page, clear and clean; 
Underneath the lurid sun 
Of the battle lines — with you 
I shall fight and conquer, too, 
I, in dreams of 'Sixty-one. 



[ 25 1 



CAN WE FACE HIM? 

(If the Liberty Loan Fails) 

Somewhere along the battle Ilne 

A mud-grimed soldier dares his part 

And wears above a loyal heart 

A starry flag he holds divine. 

By night, by day, though Death may ride 

Beside him in the fearful hail, 

He bravely breasts the doom-shot tide 

And breathes **My Country" in his pride ■ 

How can we face him if we fail? 

Though other banners wave above 
And other lands the fight may share 
He holds his own beyond compare 
And glories in his country love. 
To fight for her alone, to die 
If need be, that she may prevail — 
A vision lights his weary eye. 
The vision of her flag on high — 
How can we face him if we fail? 

What have we then that we can give 
So precious in this great world strife, 
That we can balance it with life. 
To let him die that we may live? 
To urge him on to heed the call. 
To pray his strength may us avail, 
To cheer him through the smoky pall 
And giving nothing, ask his all? — 
How can we face him if we fail? 
[ 26 ] 



OUR MESSAGE TO BELGIUM 

August, 1914-1917 

Once again the August sunshine 

Gleams upon the harvest there, 
Once again war's crimson glory 

Flashes on the Summer air; 
All along that awful pathway, 

Inland from the North Sea's foam, 
Through the blood-red battle breakers. 

We shall lead you home. 

Now the foes* gray tide receding 

Leaves its mark upon the land. 
Blackened home and ravished city, 

Cratered field and scarlet sand. 
Back along the fringe of carnage, 

Where the hosts of death still roam 
Fearing nothing, pressing onward. 

We shall lead you home. 

Home again to peaceful rivers 

By your heroes' life-blood dyed. 
Home again new fires to kindle 

On a quiet country side, 
Back along your path of valor. 

O'er the weirdly 'richened loam. 
With our star-lit flag above you. 

We shall lead you home. 



[ 27 ] 



THE FLAG'S BIRTHDAY 

P OREVER new, despite its ancient story, 
Forever young, through all its hallowed years, 
Forever mighty in its breeze-swept glory, 
Forever smiling through a Nation's tears: 

Flag of all flags — its brave and tender meaning 
Shines in each deep and battle-honored scar, 
Pure as the heavens its flowing folds are screening, 
Bright as each glowing flame-refulgent star. 

Forever true, in stanch and knightly beauty, 
Forever free, to all the world flung wide, 
Forever bravest in the fight of duty. 
Forever proud, though taunting foes deride. 

Flag of all flags — above, its rippled beaming, 
Blazing on high in freedom's purest ray. 
Waves o'er the Sword, unsheathed, with vict'ry 

gleaming, 
War-tossed and love-blessed on its Natal Day. 



[ 28 ] 



THE GOOD OLD PRICES 

OOMETIMES the price of things goes up and up 

and up, 
And all that life appears to hold is dregs within the 

cup. 
I find a solace sweet and sure, no matter then how 

sick 
My heart may be, in looking through my boy^s 

arithmetic. 

With eager eye I turn again the well-thumbed pages 

o'er 
To find he does the problems that I did in days of 

yore. 
"If Mr. Smith had eighteen bucks," demands a 

knotty one, 
"How much good coal could Smithy buy at just 

four bucks per ton?" 

And when the rush of bills and such have nicked 

me in the neck, 
I find the one that runs like this: "At twenty cents 

a peck. 
How many spuds, in bushels, please, were sent to 

Mr. Jones, 
Who took into the grocery store exactly seven 

bones?" 



129 ] 



^'When beans are just six cents a quart — and beef 

ten cents a pound/' 
I gloat again upon these facts until my head goes 

round, 
And once again I 'm wafted back into my boyhood 

days 
And see the Golden Age again right through the 

High Cost haze. 

For though these other things may change and rise 

through all the years 
Until the thought of buying food brings only bitter 

tears, 
There's one place that the good old days just hang 

around and stick — 
They have n't boosted prices in the kid's arithmetic. 



[ 30 ] 



OCCASIONAL POEMS 



' MY FLAG 

Other flags have dipped in blood, 

Youth has kissed their folds and died, 
While, above the battle flood, 

Watched the women tender-eyed ; 
Other flags, snatched to the skies, 

Christened in the crimson wine. 
Other flags — before my eyes 

Floats but one, O Flag of Mine. 

Youth with faith, serene and sweet 

As the love a baby holds, 
Marching on with steadfast feet. 

Underneath their rippling folds, 
Holding them as things apart 

Set in manhood's inmost shrine, 
Other flags — within my heart 

Reigns but one, O Flag of Mine. 

Flag of Mine, with stripe and star. 

Glorified, unsullied, pure, 
Best beloved of all you are, 

On the heights, alone, secure; 
Come what may of peace or strife 

Never shall your folds entwine 
Other flags — in death or life, 

One, alone, O Flag of Mine. ^ 



[ 33 ] 



THE YOUNG MEN 

Gettysburg, 1863-1913 

We were the Young Men then — 

Flower of the patient Northland, 

Flower of the fiery Southland, 

We were the Young Men then — 
Looking on death with a laugh in the Chance of the 

leaden Gamble, 
Breathing the smoke of the Fight and the reek of the 

Angle's shamble, 
Gray in lines swept by the hail from the hills and 

broken asunder. 
Blue in the ranks standing fast and stanch, there in 

the Ridge's thunder — 

We were the Young Men then — 
Flower of the North, my comrade, 
Flower of the South, my comrade — 
We were the Young Men then. 

We were the Young Men then — 
Flower of our cherished Homeland, 
Flower of our fathers' Homeland, — 
We were the Young Men then. 

Swifty the years file by with the measured tread of 
the Ages, 

We who could laugh in the face of Death, faltering 
gray-haired Sages, 



[ 34 ] 



March to the Call again, gaze o'er the grim, hal- 

low'd field and ponder. 
What all our Fifty Years have gained, they lost, 

'neath the white stones yonder — 

We were the Young Men then — 
Comrade, beneath the lilies, 
Foeman, beneath the lilies, 
We were the Young Men then. 



[ 35 ] 



CHUCKING A REPROBATE 

Farewell to 19 14 

Our hands are on your collar, no use to grip your 

chair; 
No use to plead with us to mark your white and 

snowy hair; 
For we know your bloody record now beyond all 

shade of doubt, 
And though the night be cold and drear we 're going 

to throw you out. 

For you ^ve been a cold, hold year 

With your swords and guns and battles; 
You ^ve been a bold, cold year 

With your death gurgles and rattles. 
We HI heave you on the highway, 

We will pitch you through the door^ 
Out upon the old, cold by-way 

Of the bad years gone before. 

When first you came among us all your manners 

were quite mild, 
You tripped the flowery hills of spring as harmless 

as a child; 
But as your head grew gray and wise beneath the 

summer suns, 
You spoke in grim, gruff monotones as of a million 

guns. 



[ 36 ] 



For you^ve been a tough, rough year^ 

And your eyes are shot and bleary; 
You've been a rough , tough year, 

With your mutter in gs we Ve weary. 
We 've stood your bluff and bluster, 

Now it '5 turn and turn about; 
We We proceeding without fluster, 

And weWe going to turn you out. 

You 're a hoary headed reprobate who 's worn a wel- 
come bare, 

Your beard is spiked with bayonets and gunsmoke 
wreathes your hair; 

Now while you sit and grin and gloat o'er suffering 
mortals' tears, 

We 're going to heave you on your head out with the 
old bad years. 

For you *ve been a bad, mad year. 

And your gnarled old hands are gory; 
You 've been a mad, bad year. 

With your tale of blood and glory. 
Our left hand 's on your collar. 

Our right 's upon your pants; 
You can yell and scream and holler. 

But you have nH got a chance. 



[ 37 ] 



THE SPIRIT OF VICTORY 

HE'S only ten and his tousled head 
Echoes the gold of the April sun — 

Gripping them both 'til he goes to bed, 
His baseball bat and his trusty gun. 

He marches along with sturdy stride 

Over the meadows and through the street, 

Ready for all that may betide 
The sternest foe that his path may meet. 

Strife of the diamond, war's grim work 
Falling alike to his sunburned hand, 

His not the heart of a slacker-shirk, 
Leading to battle his trusty band. 

Give us the heart of that ten-year-old, 

Lighter the tasks that must soon be done - 

The ready strength of those hands that hold 
The baseball bat and the trusty gun. 



[38] 



THE FOOTBALL PLAYER 

i OUR autumn armor girds you 'round 
From cleated shoon to leathern helm, 
Your thund'ring rushes scar the ground 
'Twixt lime-lined borders of your realm ; 
'Gainst wearing rack, 
For sharp attack, 

Swift forrays, 'neath the spheroids flight - 
'Gainst jarring knock 
And brushing shock 
You stand a well-accoutred knight. 

Your pliant sinews scorn the strain 

Of wind-swift tackles* swooping clasp; 

Your shoulders carve the yawning lane, 

Your high knees tear the frantic grasp; 

Or waiting low 

The rushing foe. 

Your steel arms tighten, left on right; 

Torn free away 

Or sore at bay 

You roam a strong and sturdy knight. 

Revered tradition holds you true 
And blazes all your rugged way, 
As did the heart the Douglas threw 
Into the turmoil of the fray; 



[ 39 ] 



And striking square 

And hard and fair 

You cleave your way with main and might; 

Nor yield an inch 

Nor foul nor flinch 

But strive as best becomes a knight. 



[40] 



IF I WERE — 

If I were Robert Chambers — well 
I '11 bet I 'd write the stuff to sell ; 
I 'd write of men in evening dress, 
And ladies in a little less — 
Until the public cried, *'Gee whizz, 
How warm that stuff of Chambers' is." 

If I were F. P. A., I wot 

I 'd translate Latin with a trot 

And shoot that fluff for days and days 

In ultra-modern paraphrase, 

Until the high-brow bunch would say, 

"Some clever bloke, that F. P. A." 

If I were Monty Glass — say, kid, 
I guess I could n't sling the Yidd — 
I 'd write of ''bibble" and of ''ish," 
Pfannkucken and gefullte-fische, 
** Believe me, Mawruss," you would cry, 
*'He's got it class, that writer guy." 

If I were only Bernard Shaw, 

My stuff at times would be quite raw; 

But I, of course, would have to pan 

The foibles of my fellow man, 

And when the prudent felt the sting 

They'd sneer, ''This Shaw knows everything. 



[ 41 ] 



If I were only Teddy R. 
I 'd box and wrestle, ride and spar, 
And sign my bold, historic name 
To crates and crates of tropic game ; 
My gentle readers would declare, 
**Our Teddy knows, for he was there." 

In fact, I often stop to think. 

If I were any other gink 

Besides the author of this col — 

Compiler of this fol-de-rol — 

How nice 't would be to overhear — 

"He grabs off fifty thou per year." 



[ 42 ] 



SNOW 

1 KNOW a bleak unlovely plain, 
A dismal stretch of weed and sand, 

Where Desolation's horrors reign, 
Severe and grim on every hand. 

The shrill winds whistled through the night; 

The great drifts eddied here and there 
And buried deep and out of sight 

My well- trimmed walks and gardens fair. 

And now I look across the snows — 

A sea of sparkling diadems, 
A garden white, wherein there glows 

A myriad of precious gems. 

The dreary plain must stretch away 
Beyond the borders of my plot, 

And yet it shimmers back to-day 
As dazzling white as Camelot. 

There, where the drifts in billows swell. 
And border line with border blends, 

I know and yet I cannot tell 

Where waste begins and garden ends. 

And so I wot, were we to see 

Some bleak unlovely lives we know 

Through eyes of perfect charity 
Our careful border lines would go — 

The Thee and Me and Me and Thee 
Quite buried as in dazzling snow. 

[ 43 1 



A CITY WATCHER 

U PON the chasms of the town 

The winter twilight closes in, 
The ev'ning draws her mantle down 

Upon the dusty, noisy din ; 
I press my face against the glass 

And peer above the buildings high 
To where the moon-tipped cloudlets pass 

Across my strip of starry sky. 

A little strip of star and cloud — 

It stretches high above the street, 
So far above the jostling crowd 

And noisy tread of rushing feet, 
So far away from where I peer 

Out through my smudgy window-pane; 
And yet, I fancy, there I hear 

The bells and see the reindeer train. 

And so I watch there every night 

When all about the room is still ; 
Before they bring the supper light; 

I lean my elbows on the sill, 
And watch the racing cloudlets go — 

The reindeer cloudlets that I see, 
And wonder if St. Nick will know 

The boy who 's looking up is me. 



[ 44 ] 



A TOAST TO THE MANY 

I OU have drunk to the line of your heroes 

That sprang when the world began ; 
You have raised to its kingly station 

The name of the Man-who-can ; 
You have crowned him with bay and laurel, 

You have echoed the ancient boast, 
And now while the wine is with us 

I '11 pledge you another toast. 

You have drunk to the feet that are fleetest, 

The might of a strong right arm, 
To the courage that answers boldly 

The shock of the quick alarm ; 
And so ever your glasses clinking, 

You have shouted a Victor's name 
And sung in your ringing measures 

The tale of a Winner's fame. 

I would pledge you the wondrous visions 

The blind man's eyes must see; 
I would drink to the deaf man's fancy 

Of a bird's song, ringing free. 
To the dream of a crippled soldier 

With his flag-love never dim. 
To the runner's heart that beats to 

The limp of a withered limb. 



[45 ] 



I would pledge you the hands that fumble, 

The brain that is dull and slow ; 
I would drink to old age that 's dreaming 

The dreams that youth should know. 
To the few? Of course, if you pledge them 

Who nestle in Fortune's lap; 
To the thousands, too, who are bearing 

The weight of the Handicap. 

You have drunk to the line of your heroes 

That sprang when the world began. 
To the nerve and brawn and the muscle, 

And the fame of the Man-who-can. 
But now while your cheers are loudest, 

And loudest the Victor's chant, 
I would pledge you in deeper earnest 

A health to the Man-who-can't. 



[46 ] 



THE MASTER DRIVER 

xdlS lash is on our shoulders, his taunts are in our 

ears; 
He goads us when we stumble, he plies his whip and 

jeers. 
Oh, Driver, Master Driver, pause ere it is too late, 
Lest we shall turn and show thee the fury of our 

hate. 



Rock strewn, the course that stretches across the 

noonday heat, 
Our backs are sore with striving and torn and 

scarred our feet. 
Oh, Driver, Master Driver, withhold the lash ye 

must! 
Lest we shall wrest it from thee and fling it in the 

dust. 

Beside the stony pathway we see the shady bowers, 
Sweet rest for pain-racked bodies amid the pleasant 

flowers. 
Oh, Driver, Master Driver, a moment would we 

stop ; 
A moment only, Master, this boon or else we drop. 

And now the course lies upward o'er gloomy ledge 

and crag. 
And still the whip is on us, he curses when we lag. 
Oh, Driver, Master Driver, the hilltop rises high. 
Fain we would loose our burden and lie down here 

to die. 

[47] 



A moment, super-human; the hot tears dim our 

eyes! 
And then, oh, dream and glory! we reach and clutch 

the prize. 
Oh, Driver, Master Driver, beneath whose lash 

we've bled. 
We bow the knee before thee, we kiss the ground 

you tread. 



148] 



AND THEN WHAT? 

JVlOULDERS of novels and builders of books, 
Learn'd literati so mighty, 
Lords of the pens that run on like the brooks, 
Fanciful geniuses flighty — 
Over the planet in devious ways, 
Weave ye your wonderful dream plots — 
Hollow your measure of silver and praise 
Til ye have met the '' And-Then-Whats." 

The little boy was very poor, 

For folks and home he had not. 
And so upon a lonely moor 

He tended sheep — 

(Chorus) ''And Then What?" 

Well, one day while he watched the sheep 
That grazed across the great lot, 

Beneath a tree he fell asleep. 
Yes, quite asleep — 

(Chorus) ''And Then What?" 

Well, while he slept a giant came 

With bludgeon, sword, and top-knot; 

He shook the boy and called his name 
And woke him up — 

(Chorus) "And Then What?" 



[49] 



Writers of volumes and tellers of tales, 

Authors of treatise and story, 

Delvers in history, lifters of veils, 

Winners of gold and of glory, 

Fight ye your battles for name and for place, 

Slaves of the lamp and the ink-pot. 

Where shall ye win that which lights up that face 

Or breathes in that whispered ''And Then What?" 



[50] 



A DADDY TO HIS REAL VALENTINE 

JVl AID of chubby hands so tender, 
Maid of curls of sunHt splendor, 
Maid of laughing lips and eyes, 
Playful eyes with mischief teeming, 
Trustful eyes with true love beaming. 
Eyes of wonder, fairy wise — 
When I hear your footsteps patter, 
Down the hall, a tiny clatter, 
Then this bounding heart of mine. 
With a measured throbbing's beating. 
Just a wistful, questioned greeting — 
Maid of sunny smiles divine, 
**Are n't you Daddy's Valentine?" 



[51 ] 



THAT BOY 

JriE stands before me as I write; 

I look into his fearless eyes, 

Eyes that are clear and calm and bright, 

Filled with the solemn trust I prize — 

Sturdy and straight, he is, of limb. 

Of shoulders square and lithe of frame — 

I wonder what I bring to him 

Of strength and power to Play the Game, 

For though we battle in the sun, 
On Big League field or Bush League lot; 
The mighty Games we might have won, 
The Strike-out's sting, the Error's blot, 
All scrawled across the Scorer's sheet 
Obscure the things for which we strive — 
A record sad of stumbling feet 
To place before a boy of five. 

And yet, e'er in the Final Score 
We write our Totals line by line. 
The things we 've learned may count us more 
Than those we 've gained by margin fine. 
And where we 've Booted every Chance 
And Swung too late or Hurled too wide — 
Our faults may teach him at a glance 
And he may Win where we 've but Tried. 



[52] 



THANKSGIVING EXILES 

In the room of mocking laughter, 

Empty song and hollow jest, 
'Mid the ghosts of fine beginnings. 

Long dead hope and wearied zest — 
On the smoke wisps, lazy-lying. 

In the ghastly, tinted glow. 
Blazes forth again the Vision — 

Home, Sweet Home, of long ago. 

Years that cloud the clearer reason, 

Years that dry the better tears, 
Life that blunts the finer feelings, 

Life that laughs at hopes and fears — 
All of this in mocking revel 

Drowns the self-accusing cry. 
Choking back the dearer mem'ries 

With the bitter question, "Why?" 

All around the ghostly laughter. 

Careworn, careless, ribald play — 
Wraiths of countless old Thanksgivings 

Rising in the weary way — 
Thankful we for twisted courses? 

Thankful we for bruise and blow? 
Nay, alone we hold the Vision — 

Giving thanks for Long Ago. 



[53] 



THE TROUT BROOK 

O PLASHING on the cold smooth stones 
In mysterious undertones; 
Singing in the brush that hedges 
Pools and rills and little ledges; 
Roaring in the cool ravine, 
Eddying in a change of scene, 
Through the half-ploughed meadow land ; 
Dancing gaily on the sand. 
Echoing in woods again. 
Like the swishing of the rain; 
Gurgling, singing, dancing, splashing, 
Onward, downward ever dashing, 
Now it 's murmuring almost sadly, 
Now it's gurgling onward gladly 
And it *s song that 's ever changing 
In a thousand keys a-ranging 
Needs but one small voice to break it, 
One swift monotone to make it 
Sweeter than the sweetest bells 
With the music that it tells, 
As you hear the tick-tick-ticking 
Of your trusty reel, whose clicking 
Speaks another silent battle 
In the roaring and the rattle 
Of the ever-singing brook 
Till you Ve "got him" safely, surely, ''on 
the hook." 



[ 54] 



TO GOLF — A TOAST 

Born by the Highland heather, 

Nurtured in mountain dew, 
Careless of wind or of weather, 

Hardy and brave and true, 
Forever waiting and ready, 

With a charm that 's always the same — 
A health — every hand now steady — 

A health to the Grand Old Game. 

To the outward journey o'er hill and vale, 

Where the fair green stretches straight ahead ; 
To the drive that sings over dune and dale 

And the mashie shot when the ball drops dead ; 
To the brassie lies we all have had ; 

To the hazards we 've cleared and the ones we Ve 
found ; 
To the game we've played when our luck was bad. 

To the records we break when our luck is sound. 

To the homeward journey in sunset glow. 

To the greens we have never tried nor seen, 
To the course that few of us really know. 

To the wish that our eyes may prove as keen 
As they were in the battles we used to fight 

When the ball shot out from our iron's face 
Like a bullet straight on its onward flight. 

To the form we '11 lose with grudging grace. 



[55] 



To the nineteenth green — let your glasses clink 

Wherever it is, by mountain or sea. 
Let us take it clean and the health we drink 

Let it echo out in the night air free, 
Like a slogan that startles the highland hills, 

Or the magic sound of a mighty name. 
A health — a health with a thousand thrills, 

A health, one and all to the Grand Old Game. 

Born where the salt winds whistle 

The heathered hills among, 
In the far-off land of the thistle, 

It's old, but it's ever young. 
So drink it — ye duffers — drink it, 

A toast to its mighty name, 
Fore ! Now as our glasses clink it, 

A health to the Grand Old Game. 



[56] 



TO THE SOLDIERS OF FIFTY YEARS 

AGO 

1863 

A HURRIED march o'er the trodden meadows, 
Under the trees torn bare in the shrapnel's rain; 
Over the sod crushed down by the TrampHng 

Legions, 
Into the scorching Breath of Death again. 
On where the smoke clouds ebb and eddy, 
Rising and falling in grim design ; 
Marking across the hail-swept valley, 
A Gray Foe's far-flung Skirmish Line. 

1913 

A halting march by the silent river; 

Under the trees, full blown in their spring array, 

Over the sod untracked by the Peaceful Legions, 

Sweet with the soft warm Breath of Life and May — 

On with the ranks forever closing. 

On where the rose and laurel entwine, 

Facing now o'er the still stream's border 

A Gray Foe's hidden Skirmish Line. 



[57] 



BASEBALL POEMS 



TO TIMOTHY H. MURNANE 

Jr ACK up his bats, pick up his glove, 

For him the Game is done ; 
At last the stars peep out above 

The setting of the sun. 
Once more the field, serene at night, 

Is still, and hushed the shout. 
The Presence chokes us as we write 

Just this: *'He ran it out." 

Above the plate Time held the ball : 

He turned the last gray bag 
With stride that weakened not at all. 

His spirit did not lag, 
But proudly Homeward bound he sped, 

Nor feared the final rout. 
High flung at last the silver'd head, 

Unbowed *'he ran it out." 



[61 1 



LOOKING BACKWARD AND FORWARD 

I 

1 HE great stand's massive horseshoe towers 
And casts its shadow o'er the field, 
The clean-cut base paths carve the sward, 
An emerald diamond on a shield; 

Across the glossy sheen — 

The verdant stretching green — 

Lazy, the bleachers rise, 

Gaunt frames against the skies. 

Daily I labor here, 

Labor to cry and cheer, 

Closing my eyes, look back 

Along the winding track. 
And see, dim set there in the year's gray haze. 
The tree-fringed diamond of my boyhood days. 

2 

The maple trees that lined the road, 
The meadow stretching to the stream ; 
The deep worn sunken pitcher's box. 
Each measured white stone base a-gleam, 

Planted at ev'ry turn, 

Your bare, bruised feet to burn ; 

There in the evening's cool 

Respite from field or school, 

Sacred to Saturday's 

Scroll of tremendous frays; 

There where the hills looked down, 

Guarding the nestling town. 
First came the Vision, pointing out the way. 
The dream of Big League diamonds far away. 

[62] 



SOME WORLD — AT TIMES 

IT'S a great little world, bo. Ain't it that? 
With its mornin's so bright and its evenin's so cool 
An' y' got all yer troubles jus' pinned to th' mat, 
So you kind o' forget that it ever was crool. 
It's a great little world, pal, take it from me. 
An' y' feel jus' like jumpin' aroun' like a kitten 
When yer poundin' the ball fer aroun' three-thirty- 
three. 
It 's a great little world — when yer hittin'. 

It's a great little game, bo. Ain't it that? 
With its ups an' its downs an' its pinches an' such 
When y' knows that y' got that ol' blow in yer bat 
An' y' don't care if pitchers has little er much. 
It's a great little world, pal, y' can believe. 
When yer gettin' a-hold till the fences are sphttin* 
When y' got that ol' wallop jus' hid up yer sleeve. 
It's a great little world — when yer hittin'. 

It's a gloomy ol' world, bo. Ain't it that? 
When yer swingin' so hearty with never a hit, 
When th' pitcher 's jus' flingin' 'em up like a gat 
An' wotever y' meet goes kerplunk in a mitt; 
It's a great little world, though all th' way roun'. 
Full o' bright happy hours that are fleetin' and flit- 
tin' 
When yer knockin' yer enemies off 'n th' moun'. 
It 's a great little world — when yer hittin'. 



[63] 



It's a gloomy ol' world, bo, gloomy and gray, 
When yer pluggin' along in a half-hearted way, 
When y' knows y' ain't got yer ol' min' on yer 
knittin' — 

But 
It's a great little world — when yer hittin'. 



[ 64] 



*'FER TO ADMIRE" 

(A Spring Fever Idyl) 
(A. to R. K. once more) 

1 H' bleacher crowd jes* sets an' smiles 
An' stretches, lazy as kin be; 
While roun' th' field fer miles an' miles 
It 's run an' sweat an* work fer me. 
M' legs is tired, m' arm is lame, 
I guess I 'm done fer good an' all; 
An' 'mid the chatter of the game, 
^ Th' empire drones, "Come on, play ball.'* 

Fer to admire an' fer to see, 
Fer to git panned on ev^ry side — 
This game it ain't no good to we, 
But I can't quit it if I tried 1 

I sees th' ladies in the stan's, 
All decked in red an' green an' blue. 
I lamps th' moguls shakin' ban's 
A-smokin' an' a-jokin' too. ! 

An' then m' cap down on m' eyes 
I pulls an' blinks up at th' sun, 
An' hears th' far-off cheerin' rise 
An' wishes that th' game was done. 

Dere 's bankers and dere 's lawyers there 
An' bus'ness guys an' doctors too. 
All drinkin' in the warm spring air — 
They ain't got nawthin' else to do. 

[ 65 ] 



An' when I thinks th' cinch they got, 
Jes' watchin' me an' all m' pals 
All chasin' roun' a bloomin' lot, 
Th' old blue feelin' in me swells. 

I wish I had a little shop, 
Er drove a team er sailed a ship, 
Instid of pluggin' till I drop 
An' takin' all th' boss's lip; 
Dere's nawthin' else but hit an' run 
An' slide th' skin all off yer gams, 
An' makin' out it 's so much fun, 
Jes' like a bunch of blasted lambs. 

Fer to admire an' fer to see^ 
Fer to git panned on euWy side — 
This game it ainH no good to we, 
But I canH quit it if I tried! 



[66 1 



THE FLINGING WHIP 

Ages and ages ago, when the tunes of the Pipes of 

Pan 
Echoed afar and across the breadth of a shaggy 

world, 
When o'er the wooded hills the nimble cave men 

ran. 
Sought out their mortal foes and their flint-tipped 

spear shafts hurled — 
Then by the evening fires the Bards of the Caverns 

sang — 
And the tales of the Mighty Men echoed on every 

lip 

Till the shadowy depths of the forest rang 
With the old, old song of the Flinging Whip. 

Arm that is steady ^ arm that is true^ 
Backed by a heart that is unafraid; 
Arm that is tireless the long fight through — 
Symbol of power since the world was made. 

Spear tips and lance heads of old found in the 

muddy Nile, 
Boomerangs, bolos and slings borne from the jungle 

wild. 
Brought o'er the Seven Seas from some far-off 

sunny Isle — 
Javelins long, long ago, the toys of some Spartan 

child — 



[67] 



E'en from the frozen North and its dreary stretches, 

where 
In the depths of the lonely seas the sliding glaciers 

dip 
And the Eskimo hunts for the Polar Bear — 
Comes the old, old song of the Flinging Whip. 

Arm that is steady, arm that is true, 
Arm that is sure and sturdy and sound. 
Arm that will last nine innings through — 
Symbol of power the world around. 



[68] 



THE OLD TRAINER 

1 SITS alone upon the bench 
An' leans my elbows on my knees 
An' looks away across the field 
Far to its fringe of buddin' trees. 
An' all around me, bare of limb, 
An' bare of arm, an' far an' near, 
I sees my boys at work agin 
Jus' as I have these twenty year. 

For Life is like the great wide field 
Where we work and toil and run our race^ 
• Where the strong ones win and the weak ones 
yield 
And we sweat in the heat of the driving pace, 

I sees the sprinter's nervous stride. 
His high-flung knees, his fighting face ; 
The distance runner's easy swing, 
The hurdler's graceful loping pace. 
An' up an' down the cinder path 
The awkward lurch, the faultless style, 
An' searches out the heart to stand 
The cruel flash of the quarter mile. 

Yes, Life is a quarter-mile^ s fearful grind, 
A scramble hard from the starting gun. 
With devil a chance if you lag behind, 
An' a heart that bursts when the race is done. 



[69] 



I Ve seen them come these twenty year, 
An' seen them win or lose and go ; 
I 've seen the young ones, fast and strong, 
An' watched the old ones getting slow. 
An' some that won, I 've found it hard 
To shake their hand and praise their part, 
An' some have lost, but losing still 
Have found th' soft place in my heart. 

For Life goes like a long cross-country run^ 
An'' we sets and watches it day by day, 
While the runners, passing us one by one^ 
Race over the hills and jar away, 

I mind the first spiked shoes I wore 
When I was no thin' but a lad, 
'T is more than thirty years ago ; 
Yet all the joys I ever had 
Began with them, and now I think 
The day I won my first great race 
How like these boys of mine I was — 
Yet see these wrinkles in my face. 

For Life is a race, and we run it welly 
Or we lag behind and we pant and blow; 
Yet sooner or later we hear the bell 
That tells us we ^ve only one lap to go. 



[70] 



THE BOY AND THE DREAM 

Waif of the reeking streets, dust- spattered, thin, 
With cap aslant upon brave, wistful eyes, 
And piping voice that rings above the din 
Its warning call against the law's surprise; 
Knight of the great Black Glove so deftly turned, 
Master so soon of sweeping curve and speed — 
Tell us with what great Dream your soul has 

burned, 
To what Far Goal your Hopes and Visions lead. 

Yet, watching, do we note the Johnson pose. 

Two ragged arms stretched high, a bosom swelled. 

Then quickly shifting to a tense repose ; 

Two grime-stained hands against your jacket 

held — 
And then the hurl, the step, the follow through: 
Keen, anxious eyes that peer along the flight, 
A glimpse of Walsh, of Wood and Matty too, 
All blending in the swift descending right. 

Waif of the dusty streets, we know your Dream — 
Across the years there sounds the Bleachers' roar. 
Across the years the Big League standards gleam. 
Across the years one Name and nothing more — ' 
Your name, my lad, sharp called above the Fray: 
Your Name, my boy, far roU'd o'er many Fields, 
Your Dream, we said, yet, plodding day by day, 
Our own until they lay us on our Shields. 



[71 ] 



THE CALL TO ARMS 

Von MACKENSEN was wounded, 

Von Hindenburg had gout, 
Von Kluck had stopped some shrapnel 

That nearly knocked him out. 
Across the Kaiser's visage 

Ran dark despair and dread, 
"It' s iiber alles mit uns, 

"We're ausgetrimmed," he said. 

"Oh, Rotterdam and Potsdam, 

Oh, Amsterdam," cursed he; 
**0h, dam these three von generals, 

They've fallen down on me." 
And sounds of kingly sobbing 

Went from that place heraus, 
Until a noble queried: 

"Is Wagner in the house?'* 

A smile lit up the Kaiser, 

He smote his knee and swore, 
"I'm dummer in der kopfe 

Why ain't I thought before? 
Bring hither mighty Honus 

From Pittsburgh o*er the sea! 
An Iron Cross for Honus, 

And three long ' hochs ' for me." , 

So from the fortressed harbor 

The submarines set out, 
To bring back Hans the mighty, 

And stem the allied rout. 

[72 J 



Gray-headed, grim, they found him, 
Rampaging like a Krupp, 

Still busting down the fences 
And busting ball games up. 

''Come mit uns, Herr von Vogner, 

Der Kaiser says, come home ; 
Der submarine is waiting 

Beneath the ocean's foam.'* 
But Honus shook his noodle, 

And turned a careless ear 
And said, "Go tell der Kaiser 

Ich bin ein Pirate here." 

We're neutral here in Boston, 

Except upon the green, 
Upon the grassy diamond, 

Where deeds of might are seen. 
We give three hochs for Honus, 

We like his Pirate ways 
But it's Pittsburgh iiber alles 

As long as Honus stays. 

It's Pittsburgh iiber alles 

As long as Honus waves 
His many-bingled bludgeon 

Before our startled Braves. 
That 's why we hoch der Kaiser, 

And hope within our dome 
That when he needs good Pirates ' 

He '11 yank this Dutchman home. 

[73] 



THAT PENNANT 

r LING it out to the breeze, old scouts^ 

Break out each flutt'ring fold; 

The Flag of a Hundred Winning Bouts, 

The Sign of Hearts that told ; 

Hoist it above to the half-heard cheer, 

Flaunt it where Hope has dropped, 

Point where it spells your Title clear. 

The Right of the Guys that Copped. 

Sloughed in the ruckj 

Gripped by the luck, 

Beaten and hindered hut neuer stopped; 

The Ghost of a bragging Boast of a Flag 

Spurring you on where others might lag — 

And the Pride of the Guys that Copped. 

Fling it out and against the sky 
And let it ride the gale, 
A silken emblem floating high 
Above a thorny Trail ; 
Hold it aloft where all may see 
And read its legend bright, 
A flag that boasts as heraldry 
The Scroll of a Winning Fight. 

Battered and torn, 

Weary and worn. 

Holding the course through a darksome night 

Still being the flash of the sharp, swift dash. 

The start of the first real Forward smash; 

And the Punch of the Winning Fight. 

[74] 



Fling it out to the chilling gust 
And let it be a Boast, 
The Sign of a well-remembered Trust, 
The Badge of a Fighting Host ; 
And though you tread the harder way, 
And battle where Faith has flopped. 
Follow through all the bitter Fray, 
The Flag of the Guys that Copped. 

Sloughed in the ruck, 

Gripped by the luck, 

Battered and beaten but neuer stopped — 

Still holding the ways of the other days, 

The paths of Glory and pomp and praise 

With the Pride of the Guys that Copped. 



[ 75] 



"WOT'S D' SCORE" 

VjEE, but yer lookin' swell, mister, 

Drivin' yer great big car, 

An' settin' back like a bloomin' king 

A-smokin' a fat cigar! 

I bet you blowed, to-day, mister, 

A couple o' casers an' more ; 

But I ain't lookin' fer coin, mister, 

I'm askin' y' ''Wot's d' score?" 

Wot '5 d' score ? Wot '5 d' score ? 

F' kin shoot it goin'' by ; 
Wot 's d' score ? Wot 's d' score ? 

I kin grab it on J' fly. 
F' wonH have to slow a bit, mister — 

Say, y need nH look sore^ 
Cos I ainH beggin' a cent, mister; 

I'm askin' y' " Wot 's d' score?'' 

I asks me dad fer a two-bit piece, 

An' he gives me d' icy stare, 

An' I tries to borry it from me frien's. 

An' fer once me frien's ain't dere. 

I climbs in over the fence, mister. 

But d' cop puts up a roar; 

So dat 's why I 'm here in d' cold, mister. 

An' askin' y' *'Wot 's d' score?" 

Wot 's d' score ? Wot 's d' score 7 

{I guess dis guy is deaf); 
Wot '5 d' score ? Wot 's d' score ? 

(Er he's stingy with his breaf). 

176] 



/ ain't askin' no dough, mister, 

F' ainH no call to get sore; 
I'm talkin' jes' as polite as I kin 

An' askin' y' '* Wot 's d' score? '* 

He's only a ragged youngster, 

And he's rather fresh, you say; 

Or perhaps your mind is busy 

Figuring out a play. 

But you Ve seen the game, and he has n't, 

And his heart is mighty sore, 

And it 's a brave little voice that pipes so loud 

** Jes' askin' y' 'Wot's d' score? ' " 

Wot '5 d' score ? Wot 's d' score ? 

You hear it every day; 
Wot 's d' score ? Wot 's d' score ? 

A plaintive little lay. 
It does n't cost much for an answer^ 

A couple of breaths — no more; 
But they 're surely worth a smile apiece 

To the kid with his *' Wot 's d' score ? " 



[77] 



THE RETURN OF THE FAITHFUL 

IjACK here on the bleachers, bo, 

Settin' in the sun? 

Back here on the bleachers, pal, 

Waitin' for the fun? 

Hocked yer winter overcoat? 

Put yer job in soak? 

Don't see what 's a-makin' you 

Such a happy bloke. 

Zing! Zing! it '5 the same old smoke. 

With its hopj oV top, and the same oV dropf 

Did ye pipe where that fast one broke? 

Zowiel police! Say, did he hit that ball? 

Well, take it from me he did; 

He '5 the guy with the eye that they never get by^ 

The little, oV, murderin'' kid. 

Back here on the bleachers, bo, 

Settin' in the sun? 

Back here on the bleachers, pal, 

Waitin' for the fun? 

Shiver in the wind, ol' scout? 

Makes — no, never mind. 

Hot enough a-callin' down 

Umpires that is blind. 

Bing! bang! Get them outfield guys a hack, 

Fer it 's swing and bing, while they sizzle and sing^ 

And a lot of ^em never comes back — 

Come on! come on! keep a-comin^ in, oV boy! 

[78] 



That '5 the way to put on the steam; 

Fer it '5 pep, are y' hep, that 's give y yer rep^ 

You little, ol\ murderin' team. 

Back here on the bleachers, bo, 

Settin' in the sun? 

Back here on the bleachers, pal, 

Waitin' for the fun? 

Lemme shake yer mitt, ol* scout ; 

Jus' slip me yer fin ; 

Here 's the dreary days that 's gone — 

Good ones comin' in. 



[79] 



ABE POTASH ON SUMMER 

(Apologies to M. Glass) 

JjELIEVE me, I ain't making no kick, y' under- 
stand me; 
I ain't yet that kind of a low life bummer 
Which he is got to go round with an axe so handy 
And making it knocks that there ain't no summer 
And spoiling it trade, but there 's winters I 've seen 

it 
Which is got days that ain't so chilly 
As these here days when the Grass 's so green it 
Looks just like them suits we sell Sachs in Philly; 
And I goes by ball games and sits and hollers 
And makes it those sounds us rooters gives vent 

to — 
I 've shivered all spring and what is it f oilers? 
Sure it's summer, Mawruss, but where is it went to? 



[80 1 



THE CHAMPION 

1 HE Champion's way is the way of power, 
Of strength and courage and might, 
Of nerve that told in a crucial hour, 
Proved true in a gruelling fight ; 
And his bludgeon flashes above the fray 
As clean as a broadsword's blade, 
And he strides the field in the haughty way 
Of youth that is unafraid. 

PLAY BALL — 

Come, hoys, who^s the hatter? 

Hark! above the hleachers' roar 

Voices shrill and hoarse once more 

Hear the infieWs chatter — 
Winter sloth that flies again ^ 
Pennant hopes that rise again^ 
Summer in the skies again — 

Come, hoys, who '5 the hatter ? 

The Champion's way is a stony path. 

With no one to call him friend. 

And naught to meet but a loser's wrath 

Through the whole league and to end ; 

But he bides his time with a sturdy heart 

With the glint of steel in his eye. 

And he scorns the hand that would take his part 

And welcomes the battle cry. 



[81 ] 



PLAY BALL — 

Come, boys, who's the batter? 

On the paths from base to base. 

Kicked by flying feet that race, 

See the dust puffs spatter, 

Gleaming spikes that flash again, 
Crashing smash of ash again, 
Old-time foes that clash again — 

Come, boys, who^s the batter? 

The Champion's way is the way of pride 

And his goal is his title clear 

That his pennon bold on his spear may ride 

With never a blot or smear; 

Nor yet content with the combats won, 

Nor seeking rest from the fray, 

But leading the fight from sun to sun, 

A champion all the way. 

PLAY BALL — 

Come, boys, who '5 the batter ? 

Hark I above the bleachers^ roar 

Voices shrill and hoarse once more 

Hear the infield'' s chatter — 

Old-time friends that meet again, 
Throbbing hearts that beat again 
With the thrill that 's sweet again — 

Come, boys, who 's the batter ? 



[82] 



AN OLD STORY 

(More or less by Request of a New "Martyr") 

OUMMER girls there are a-plenty- 
Doubtless you could name me twenty 

Girls who motor, golf and sail their yachtlets over 
all the summer seas, 

Girls who sun themselves on beaches, 

Nut-brown maids, piazza peaches — 

Girls who grace old-fashioned hammocks under- 
neath th' old apple trees; 

But you do not know them all, 

Plain or pretty, short or tall. 

Till you Ve listened to them chatter at a Big League 
game of ball : — 

{Chorus) 

Why do they call him a short stop? What d' ye 

mean — a hit? 
Why do they have two umpires? Is that what you 

call a mitt? 
How old is that Mr. Speaker? Oh, is n't Carrigan 

cute? 
If that's what you call a regular Curve, then why 

do they say a shoot? 
What — did the catcher steal second? Does every 

one have to bat? 
I went to lots of the games last year — where do 

you s'pose I sat? 



[83] 



Is that man a regular player? Gracious he looks too 

small ! 
Say, which do you like the best, dancing or watch- 
ing a game of ball? 

We will not print the answers of the cross-examined 

man — 
Suffice to say he does explain as best becomes a fan ; 
For how can man lie better, as the wise Macaulay 

wrote, 
Than to the artless, winsome miss who thusly "gets 

his goat"? 



184] 



** HARVARD YALEWOCKY " 

(As it May Be) 

1 WAS brickley and the edmahans 
Did mills and storer like a lion, 
All hardwick were the donovans 
And the rexhitchcock obrien. 

Beware the ketchamjones, my son, 
The bulldog jaws that snap and crack; 
Beware the hefflefinger, shun 
The bully johnnymack. 

He took his haughton sword in hand, 
Long time the hinkey foe he sought. 
Then rested he by a tedcoy tree 
And stood awhile in thought. 

And while a gallauer thought he did 
The ketchamjones, with eyes aflame, 
Pumpelleyed up the markle grid 
And cornished as he came. 

One, two, one, two, and through and through 
The haughton sword went snickersnack; 
He left it dead and with its head 
He percywendelled back. 



[85] 



And hast thou slain the ketchamjones? 
Come to my arms, my bettle boy; 
Oh, dudleydean, oh, dibblee day, 
He trumbuUed in his joy. 

*T was brickley and the edmahans 
Did mills and storer like a lion. 
All hardwick were the donovans 
And the rexhitchcock obrien. 



[86 1 



SPRING KNOWS 

I 

OPRING knows the Dream of an Autumn Flag — 
So many games to win — so many games half 

won — 
Spring knows the Pep that shall never lag — 
A long, long Race ahead — a Race that is all but 

run — 
Swiftly the Summer garbles the Dope, 
The golden Vision rending, 
Twisting the Luck and dimming the Hope 
Long e'er the Season's ending; 
Till all that is left to a Fighting Clan, 
Through a Hopeless Half of a Schedule's span, 
Is the Right to do but the Best it Can 
With a Broken Dream, past mending. 

2 

Youth knows the Dream of a Distant Goal — 

So many deeds to do — so many Deeds half done — 

Youth writes its Fame in a Phantom scroll — 

A long, long Fight ahead — a fight that is all but 

won — 
Harshly the Swift Years Shatter the Dream, 
The Springtime Vision rending. 
Crushing the Hope and dimming the Gleam 
Long ere the Journey's ending; 
Till all that is left in the seething Fight 
Is the Tatter'd Banner — the Loser's Right 
To the Best He Can Do in the Fading Light 
Of his Broken Dream, past mending. 



CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS 
U . S . A 



